Dressed For Murder
by InfinitIsh
Summary: There were memories that wanted her to go back to the life that she had had before–but no, she did not listen. She was Dee, the infamous contract killer–no, she did not listen. Written for 'Woman in Black' over at the HPFC and 'The Writer Round Two'


_A/N: This was written for the 'Woman In Black' challenge by Hermione's Harmony over at the HPFC, as well as the actual first round of The Writer Competition by Miss(dot)CarolinePotter_

_Hope you like reading this as much as I had fun writing it._

_Oh, and I do not own Harry Potter._

Dressed for Murder

By Aurors of Olympus

_We are constantly doing things against the better side of our nature. At the time, perhaps, we think we desire to do it, but we only desire it because we are forced to desire it. Such is the human tendency – that whether we are good or bad, it makes no difference. We are all slaves to our own and everyone else's mind._

'_Importance of Psychology', an essay by Ramakrishna Mission._

* * *

><p>She had not known that this would happen. Not really. Not even in the wildest of her dreams (And she did have some wild dreams). How much ever she tried convincing herself otherwise, no, this could not have been prevented.<p>

Sometimes, _sometimes_, she did have a wave of her past life – her past friends, her past job, her past family, _him_, but no, she ignored them. Even though she now led a new life, her past would always be there to haunt her, to creep into her nightmares, to ruin a perfect day – _it would always be there._

All that was because the memories, they were still there. Memories striving for recognition, memories surging, wave after wave, memories wanting acknowledgement. Memories that did the part of her conscience, memories that wanted her to go back to the life that she had had before –

But no, she did not listen. She was Dee, the infamous contract killer – no, she did not listen.

It did not pain her. How she had become who she had, why she had become who she had, _when _she had become who she had – it did not pain her, no, because after all, what was the use? The use of compunction, of regret – they only brought back bad instances of her past.

And that was something that she did not want. She was Dee, the human bounty hunter – no, it did not pain her.

That aside, she did not herself know when she'd become who she had. How she had become Dee, wanted by Aurors and Muggle police alike remained to be a mystery to all but her.

But _when_, exactly, she'd turned … dark, she did not know.

True, it had all begun with a secret. A secret dark and foreboding, a secret hardly known to anyone. A secret so well-kept, so _true_, that it had become the source of the huge queue of murdered witches and wizards at the entrance to the Underworld.

A secret that had found its way into the hands of Blaise Zabini (the scoundrel, the rat).

A secret, because of which, she had been mercilessly blackmailed. Blackmailed into killing, blackmailed into torturing without mercy. Blackmailed into the dark arts, blackmailed into the ruthless murder of her dear ones (something that she hadn't yet accomplished – though now she would).

So yes, she had been blackmailed. She, Dee, the one who killed for fun - she, she had been blackmailed.

Whenever someone took her name (because she was very much talked about), shivers went down their backs. Dee had done something akin to what Tom Marvolo Riddle had – true, she did not do it because she wanted wizards to reign supreme, but her reasons of murder were often considered even more sinful.

And that they were. Because Dee, the Queen of Murder, she killed for fun. For enjoyment. Because just the stunned expression on her victim's faces, their shock on seeing her, it made her day.

She liked to say that she was free of the burden of her previous life – of the pressures, expectations, the stupid beliefs – but she was not.

She hardly ever looked at the mirror, because then she would see her past self trying to catch up with her present, not her present ruling supreme.

She believed that she would never, ever regret killing someone – but that was until the day that she did.

She walked, walked past the corroding wrought iron gate of the house. She walked, her face confident and her hand firmly gripping the Beechwood wand that belonged to Astoria Greengrass (because when she murdered, she did not use her own wand).

She walked, dressed in black silk – dressed for murder.

With magic hardly known to those of the Light side, she lifted the wards and the protective enchantments.

And though she would like to believe that she had not hesitated while doing so, she had, she definitely had. Because this time it wasn't some random witch or wizard or Muggle that she had been given money to kill – it was someone her blackmailer wanted her to murder.

This time, it was someone Blaise Zabini (the scoundrel, the rat) knew that she would not like killing. Someone connected to her past life, her past friends and her Hogwarts years. Someone who had once been her lover before falling in love with her other best friend. Someone by the name of Theodore Nott.

She used her enchanted penknife on the door, just so it could open and let her in – let her in towards murder.

She crept about the house, throwing murderous glances here and there (like that would convince herself that she wanted to kill), tightly holding the wand (for not a single sound was to be made). She knew her way around the house, of course – she'd been here so many times in her past life.

Finally, she found the door to the master bedroom, unlocked it, and stepped in. Though she would always deny it, there had been a brief pause, a single movement to stop whatever she was doing and go back home.

But no, she wouldn't let her conscience win over her, she would not give up, she would not go home. She was Dee, the woman born to kill, and killing was something she would never be even remotely reluctant at (or so she thought).

She strode silently, her heart beating at record speed, the words for murder at the tip of her tongue. She held the wand over Theodore's sleeping body (lying besides Daphne's of course), and took a deep breath in, ready to kill –

But no, she could not do this. She could not do this to Theodore. She could not do this Daphne, she could not do this to Theodore and Daphne's unborn child. _She just could not do this._

Yet she did do it.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

She did it because now, now she wasn't Tracey Aliona Davis anymore – no, she was a cold-blooded murderer.


End file.
